


⦿apocalypse٭

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: 5+1, Comedy, Fictitious Death, Fictitious MCDs Without Any Actual MCDs And No Aftermaths, Gen, Humor, Many Kinds of Lethal Injuries That Aren't Actually Lethal, Nightmares, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: The 5 times Malcolm Bright died, and the 1 time everyone else did. Except, did any of them really? Whump with a comedic twist.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	⦿apocalypse٭

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written a 5+1 before lol. here goes nothing. :)

### ①

Malcolm's mother liked to yeet things. A shoe at his television. Her phone at the ground. A plate into Endicott's face. Perhaps that was where he learned the behavior from. Like mother, like son after all.

His phone jettisoned into the floor, shattering the screen. He broke a few glasses in moments of flashing frustration. Even threw himself out the window once, dangling by a thread of restraint.

So it wasn't surprising when he yeeted himself down the stairs. All 24 of them. It was an eventuality he could have just described as _he had it coming_.

His head thwacked and cracked on every kick plate in discordant percussion, waking up by about the third cymbal hit. His shoulders crunched as he rolled stair after stair, thudding into a heap at the bottom.

He couldn't move. Couldn't call for help. Couldn't do anything but let his eyes slip closed.

He never woke up.

### ②

Malcolm spent the afternoon at a playground.

A playground.

He sat at a park bench on the edge, remembering what it had been like to push Ainsley on the swings when they were kids. "Higher, higher, Mal!" her memory cheered in his ear.

He missed her. Bedford Correctional was too far away to easily visit, and visiting had consequences. Consequences like not pulling the trigger.

She was in there because of him.

Fingers pressing against his eyelids, he attempted to clear her from his mind. It would have been easier if arterial spray wasn’t so vivid, shooting, reaching for him. Reminding him Endicott’s blood was on his hands.

Maybe one more go on the swings wouldn't hurt.

He picked the tallest swing he could find and started pumping his legs. Relished the beautiful darkening clouds, the strong gusts that propelled his movement.

Lightning struck the frame of the swing set, the zap killing him instantly, his frame left swinging in the breeze.

### ③

Malcolm was dead. So dead.

Gil would kill him when he found out.

He thought he was being helpful by driving Gil’s new car home. But driving down busy 14th street turned into another car slamming into the back of his, careening his car into the one in front of him.

Not his — Gil’s. Shit.

There weren’t airbags in Gil’s classic car. Most modern safety upgrades had been invented long after. Malcolm brushed his hair back from his throbbing forehead, undid his seatbelt with sore wrists.

He was fine. Fine fine.

But Gil was gonna kill him.

He stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, looking to see if anyone was hurt. A man behind — airbag deployed on a jalopy, injuries. A couple in front in a large SUV, child in the backseat — no injuries. He called for an ambulance, describing the condition of the driver that collided with him.

He sat on the ground against a garbage can, waiting for help to arrive. His head drifted off to the side, his whole body threatening to list toward the concrete. Breathing became more difficult, making his head float like it was detached from his body. His eyes slipped closed, his hands palpating a painful spot at the bottom of his ribcage.

His spleen.

He lost the battle with consciousness before help arrived —

And bled out inside.

### ④

The team _finally_ went axe-throwing. Had their own dedicated lane for the better part of two hours. JT jokingly told Malcolm every round of beers was on mister ten-thousand dollar suit, but Gil had slipped JT his card. They were chuckling, jovial, not caring about anything beyond whether they could score a few points, and even that was a tossup.

Each other’s company was the biggest draw. After that, beer.

They took turns throwing at the target of black outlined concentric circles, rarely hitting the blue or red dots for extra points. JT wanted to throw one-handed, and he proudly ricocheted his axe off the floor underneath the target. Following the suggested instructions herself, Dani took a two-handed approach, yet her axe dropped off the target. Gil had been through the rigamarole with Malcolm before, so he managed to stick his axe in the target the first throw.

“The worse you do, the more likely he can get you to come back another time to try to improve,” Gil teased, poking fun at Malcolm like he was intentionally doing a poor job as an instructor.

“Show us how it’s done, Bright,” JT encouraged.

Malcolm threw for a blue dot, the axe slicing straight through the middle. Kill shot. Ten points. He smiled, pleased with himself, and walked to retrieve it.

“Right about there,” a voice called.

He turned his body to look where it had come from.

 _Thwack_ — an axe hit him in the center of the forehead. _Thunk_ , _crack_ two others nailed his chest and arm, pinning him to the target.

“Thirteen points!” the voice cheered.

Malcolm didn’t get to throw again to try to contest it.

### ⑤

Malcolm visited Dr. Whitly because…

He was forced to.

That was mostly a lie. He found his way out of so many other things, surely he could have outwitted this one too.

He wanted to.

Also a lie. He wanted to be healthy, didn’t he? Visiting his father was pretty much the furthest thing from that. But was that a lie too? Some days he didn’t try very hard.

He was curious.

Had a knack for getting himself into things he shouldn’t, even if it caused him pain. A masochistic streak that put a manic look in his eyes, wild for more.

One visit, he was just…tired. Dead on his feet barely able to listen to the nonsense spewing from Dr. Whitly’s mouth.

“Wake up, boy!” A hardcover medical textbook smacked him across the face, his chin snapping to the side.

Looking down, he realized his mistake — his toes had crossed over the red line dividing father from son.

A whole bookcase of tomes danced about, lining up to give him a piece of their knowledge. _Clonk_ , one found his temple. _Crunch_ , one flattened his nose. Book after book stepped up to the plate and took a swing at his skull.

They hit him out of Dr. Whitly’s park.

The whole world went dark.

### +⓵

“Get back here, kid — you’re gonna miss the kickoff,” Gil encouraged.

“I’m on the plane already. There’s no turning back now, even if I wanted to,” Malcolm shared, shifting his feet again underneath the seat in front of him. It might have been first class, but the seats still carried a claustrophobic slant.

“I’m sure you could find a way,” Gil’s teasing tone settled his insides a bit.

“Seriously. I should be there before halftime,” he said, then realized, “that’s what it’s called, right?”

“Yes.” Gil laughed. “I’ll see if JT can save you some pizza rolls.”

“Nope — all gone!” He heard JT yell in the background.

“Be safe, kid,” Gil shared.

“See you soon,” he replied.

He slept on the plane, the three days spent tracking down a former FBI colleague who was pissed enough to deliver threats to his apartment by private courier catching up with him.

He woke and checked his watch. Rubbed his eyes and checked it again.

Why were they still in the air?

“Diverted to Albany,” the passenger next to him shared.

Malcolm took out his phone. _METEORITE HITS NEW YORK_ read the home page of the New York Times. The accompanying photo showed a path of destruction at least a mile wide, inside which all of his friends were waiting for him, watching the big game.

Dead on impact.

Crushed to smithereens.

Vaporized.

And that was —

the end.

* * *

Malcolm woke to his alarm, his head thrumming with a thick haze of confusion left over from a restless night’s sleep. If he was going to wake feeling hungover, the least he could have done was had a good time partying the night before. But he hadn’t been wasted in a long time.

He picked up his phone instead of turning off the stereo. “Gil, I can’t come in today.”

“Are you on your deathbed?” Gil’s surprised voice came over the phone.

“Had some really weird nightmares.” He took a deep breath, the aftereffects pounding in his head. “It’s really best I stay home.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself. I’ll come by later.”

Gil’s comment brought a wave of panic back to the surface. “Don’t let me drive,” Malcolm’s words rushed out.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

_fin_


End file.
